


with your eyes closed

by scienceblues



Series: when the fire dies [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, First Kiss, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 01:09:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17214203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scienceblues/pseuds/scienceblues
Summary: They spend longer than McCree expected in the dimly-lit kitchen, eschewing the more comfortable lounge next door in favor of the tiny table that keeps their knees knocking together, extending their first foray into getting to know each other far into the early hours of the morning. Knowing what they are to each other doesn’t mean they’ll necessarily fit together, but the conversation flows more easily than McCree ever imagined when he thought of what he’d say if they ever met.





	with your eyes closed

**Author's Note:**

> (This totally won't make any sense without reading the first part, jsyk)
> 
> Did my self-indulgent Valentine's Day soulmates fic need a sequel? Absolutely not.
> 
> ...But then I realized the scenario I'd set up would make Hanzo the well-adjusted one, while McCree still has a ways to go after so much time alone, so that was too much fun to play with to just leave it where I did, especially since they weren't properly together yet. (Plus I wanted to get one more thing out by the end of the year.) Unbetaed, so feel free to let me know if I missed anything!

Turns out Hanzo was right about the lounge.

Six wanted posters, three tall by two wide, are plastered to the dingy off-white wall in a haphazard approximation of one of the movie posters framed nicely and set around the room. His face stares back unflinchingly from each one, looking every bit as mean as the long list of crimes printed in tiny font underneath implies.

McCree stares at the display for a long minute, scratches his beard, and heaves a deep sigh. “Alright, Genji didn’t do this without some help. Any ideas who gave the bugger a hand?”

“Not a hand so much as the idea.” McCree looks to the side, still not over the novelty of hearing that voice. At least Hanzo’s gaze keeps finding its way back to him, too. “Someone put up a poster of Captain Wilhelm, and it reminded Genji that he was not the only member of Overwatch to feature on one.”

“Think I saw a couple of new recruits that might have more fitting posters to hang up,” McCree grouses, hooking his thumbs firmly in his pockets to repress the urge to rip each scrap of paper off the wall. Wouldn’t do to alarm the people he’ll be living and working with, even if the sight of the price on his head is still enough to make him want to bolt for the nearest safehouse he can lock himself away in.

“Aw, don’t worry, we’ll get him to take ‘em down,” Lena says from right beside him. McCree has to suppress his instinct to jump at how close her voice is — she must’ve blinked over while he wasn’t looking. “We didn’t get much of a heads-up you were coming, or else we might’ve thought to do it ourselves. Not your best picture, is it?”

“That's what happens when all the official pictures are six years old. They take some liberties.” McCree scratches his jaw and tilts his head, considering. “Looks like they updated my beard from the last one of these I saw up close. Hell, I’m gonna have to reshape it again.”

“I don’t know that you will,” Hanzo says mildly. “Gathering here is illegal on its own, so evading notice will be one of the top priorities on any mission.”

Lena nods along enthusiastically. “You should see some of the new protocols Winston and Athena have been working on. Isolating and scrubbing any security footage we appear on, distractors so any omnics we come across won’t be able to upload the footage intact — and extra security here and on our transportation, of course!”

McCree takes a minute to consider the idea. He’s sure it’ll take some time to get used to running in the same direction as other folks again, but what the hell. He really doesn’t want to change his beard again.

“Well, let’s hope it works,” he says.

 

* * *

 

His sleep schedule is already shot to hell and back, so after a couple hours of tossing and turning with not a wink to show for it, McCree takes advantage of the quiet to get reacquainted with the watchpoint.

All told, it’s not terribly different than Zürich or Grand Mesa. There are only minor differences in the size of some of the facilities, scaled to suit the number of agents meant to be posted here. More exercise machines at the gym, but no indoor track — although with the Mediterranean climate, that’s not too much of a loss. A smaller weapons range, but more labs to accommodate the scientists involved in the orbital launch projects. Cozier recreational spaces, since the rank and file were mostly assigned to other locations.

His socked feet shuffle along silently as he traces his way back to the kitchen. Caught up as he is in memorizing the layout, he doesn’t notice the dim light until he’s already passed through the open entryway and sees someone sitting at the table in the low light. McCree breathes his way through the instinct to freeze and reasons that of all the people he could’ve come across, this is probably the best option.

Hanzo doesn’t look at all surprised to see him. “Can’t sleep?”

“Yeah, I blew that by sleeping as soon as I got here,” McCree admits. “Wasn’t thinking that far ahead, to be honest.”

“I don’t think anyone would blame you. From what Winston said, your journey here was far from restful.”

“More like the last few years. Don’t think I’ve gotten more than catnaps since I was last in a watchpoint.”

Hanzo inclines his head thoughtfully and takes a long drink from the mug on the table in front of him. “I know the feeling,” he finally says.

“Listen, didn’t expect to find anyone here,” he says, feeling sheepish under that considering stare. “If I’m bothering you, I can go.”

“I don’t mind. I don’t need much sleep, and I get restless when confined to my room,” Hanzo confesses, turning the mug around in his hands. He quirks half a smile as McCree pulls out the chair across the table and takes an uncertain seat. “As it turns out, tea can quite literally calm the spirit. Or spirits, in my case.”

McCree cocks his head at that, uncertain for a moment as his sleep-deprived brain scrambles to catch up. “Huh. Genji always used that excuse for bouncing off the walls. Does that mean you’re twice as restless as him?”

“I doubt it,” Hanzo says dryly. “But it hasn’t been long since I arrived, so they’re still settling. There are too many hidden spots on the base for them to explore. They’re active on the best of nights, but in a new environment, it makes it difficult to get anything longer than a nap.”

“Well, seems I’m in good company, then.” McCree reaches up to tip his hat, realizes too late that it’s back in his room, then realizes _far_ too late that he likely has a horrific case of bedhead on display. Hell of a second impression to make — at least it isn’t the first.

To his relief, Hanzo doesn’t look bothered. His smile grows just a fraction wider as he looks down at his mug and drums his fingers on its ceramic surface.

They spend longer than McCree expected in the dimly-lit kitchen, eschewing the more comfortable lounge next door in favor of the tiny table that keeps their knees knocking together, extending their first foray into getting to know each other far into the early hours of the morning. Knowing what they are to each other doesn’t mean they’ll necessarily fit together, but the conversation flows more easily than McCree ever imagined when he thought of what he’d say if they ever met.

He leaves feeling more hopeful than he has since the Fall.

McCree sleeps even more deeply than the night before, dragged under towards the same companion he just left.

 

* * *

 

It takes barely another week before he finds himself wandering towards the kitchen, hoping the walk and a few of Angela’s ginger candies will settle his roiling stomach enough to catch a few more hours before starting in on inventory in the morning. Once again, he hardly notices that the lights are already on until he’s already at the door.

Once again, Hanzo doesn’t look surprised to see him.

“If you’re going to make a habit of this, you might as well try something for your insomnia,” he says matter-of-factly, standing to move to the counter. It’s a sure sign of how tired McCree is that he doesn’t protest the label on why he keeps finding himself in the kitchen after midnight. “Is it dreams or restlessness?”

“Bit of both? It’s hard to stay asleep when I have the real deal to look forward to seeing in the morning,” McCree says wryly.

It’s as close as either of them have come to addressing their situation, but Hanzo doesn’t look put off by the mention of it. He nods thoughtfully as he finishes refreshing the teapot, and when he turns back to the table, he has a second, half-filled mug in his hands as well.

“Appreciate the thought, but I ain’t much for anything other than coffee.”

Hanzo picks up his own cup again and takes a sip. “I won’t be offended if you don’t like it, but you might surprise yourself.”

McCree didn’t stay alive for the past six years by accepting drinks he didn’t see being made, but he swallows his suspicion, reminds himself that Hanzo’s less likely than most to want him to come to harm, and takes a tentative sip.

Then another.

“This ain’t bad,” he says, hearing the surprise color his voice.

Hanzo somehow manages to look pleased without quite crossing over into smug. “I thought you might not mind it.”

“Converted a lot of coffee drinkers to it, have you?”

“Many times.” Hanzo hides his amusement behind another sip from his mug, but the corners of his eyes still crinkle tellingly. “But just the one coffee drinker.”

Him, McCree realizes with a jolt. “You remember stuff like that?” he asks, unable to contain his curiosity.

“Of course,” he says, as if there was never any doubt. A small furrow appears between his eyebrows as he looks at McCree. “I know the dragons allow me to recall more than most would, but I thought that happened enough that you might remember.”

“Nah, I don’t get much at all. Less than anyone else I’ve talked to, at least.” McCree can’t keep his voice free of the bitterness that’s lingered since he first realized others had more fruitful dreams than he ever did, and settles for draining the last of the tea from his mug.

“Well.” The crease in Hanzo’s forehead deepens, then disappears as he pushes the teapot in McCree’s direction, leaving the offer open. “If you need any reminding, let me know.”

McCree only hesitates for a second before reaching for it to refill his tea.

The next time McCree comes shuffling into the kitchen, tired out of his mind and hoping for a friendly face, Hanzo already has a mug waiting for him. All McCree has to do is sink into the chair opposite him, fill both their cups to the brim, and let the conversation settle his churning thoughts.

 

* * *

 

“Mind if I ask you something?” At Hanzo's agreeable hum, McCree continues, “You seem to be doing well here, all things considered. And that's great, but — how?”

Hanzo leans back into his chair and looks intently at McCree over the rim of his mug. "What do you mean, how?" he asks curiously.

It sounds stupid to say it out loud, but — “You did your own thing for a while, too. How can you go back to working with other people? Living with other people? Seems like whenever I turn around there's someone there, and it scares me just about every time I don’t see them coming. It’s a lot better than it was when I got here, but the watchpoint’s full enough it still crops up now and then. Used to be anyone who got close was looking to collect, and now—” He trails off. He expected to see more understanding on Hanzo’s face by this point, but he still looks like he doesn’t quite follow.

“Assassins have become few and far between for me in the last four years or so,” he says slowly, as if still waiting for McCree to say something that will explain the direction of his thoughts. “I killed enough that it became difficult for the remnants of my family to find anyone willing to take the contract, and hiding in plain sight in a city became easier to do. Surely you had some contact with civilization, even if just for supplies?”

McCree’s shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “Not more than a handful of times. You saw my bounty. You know how tempting that is, no matter the risk.”

Hanzo doesn’t reply for a long time, and the silence leaves McCree uncomfortable. Part of him wonders when he began looking forward to their conversations so much, when he already sees Hanzo every night.

Well. Now that he’s met Hanzo for real, seems the memory of his former self just doesn’t measure up. McCree isn’t quite sure how to feel about it, but watching Hanzo lapse into silence just like any other dream makes him itch to hear him talking again, to remind McCree that it’s his flesh-and-blood soulmate across from him.

“Adjusting was hardly a challenge for me.”

McCree looks up, startled by the sudden break in the silence as much as the answer itself. Hanzo shrugs, and continues, “I told you have a stronger connection to my past lives than is normal, and I can’t be certain, but I believe I’ve met most of the other agents in some capacity or another before now. As have you, in fact. But — even with all that the spirits have shown me, I still struggle when it comes to my brother.”

Hanzo’s voice is barely audible, and McCree finally sees the same struggle he feels reflected in his serious expression. “I know that his fate has happened before and likely will again, just as the reverse has happened instead, but though that has helped him accept it, it does nothing for me. Nor should it. But it gets easier the more time I spend with him.”

“I _am_ spending time with the others.”

It sounds defensive, even to him, but Hanzo spares him from pointing that out. He settles a warm hand over McCree’s, and although welcome, it still surprises him enough he almost misses what Hanzo says next. “So it will continue to improve. In the meantime, I think it’s highly unlikely that anyone who notices will hold it against you, especially since you hide it so well.”

McCree snorts. “Fake it til I make it, huh.” He’s managed to adapt to both simulated and real missions with the new team, drawing on long-buried instincts from countless missions with Blackwatch. He gets along surprisingly well with most of the new agents in addition to rekindling old friendships with the others who answered the recall.

Might just be that he’s doing better on tearing down the carefully-constructed walls he built up after the Fall than he realizes.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, why wasn’t I invited to this slumber party?”

Hanzo pauses the movie as McCree turns back and sees Hana standing in the doorway separating the kitchen from the attached lounge. Probably should’ve guessed the sound of the television might’ve attracted more attention than sitting quietly in the kitchen like usual.

“Wanna join us? We’ve got tea.” At Hanzo’s raised eyebrow, McCree amends, “Technically it’s his, but if you ask nicely he’ll share.”

“Have you tried to sleep yet?” Hanzo asks, sounding concerned.

Hana waves him off. “No, I was calling family back home. Stayed up until it was a good time for them, and by the time we were done I was hungry.” She pauses, hands fully occupied with a container of leftovers from the back of the fridge, and then moves a few steps back into the kitchen to set it back down on the counter. “I will take some tea, though.”

“Here, I’ll get it, you go eat.” McCree stands from his seat and shoos her off, reaching the tin on the middle shelf without any trouble. There’s more than enough left from earlier to pour her a cup, but he figures he might as well get some more started in case she takes as much of a liking to it as he has.

McCree’s hands stay steady as he carefully measures and pours the way he’s seen Hanzo make it dozens of times by now, keeps an eye on the old-fashioned clock on the wall to make sure it turns out alright. By the time he returns the refilled pot to the coffee table, Hana’s nearly emptied her container of food and has moved onto peeling an orange, eyebrows knit together in concentration as she tries to remove the peel in one single piece.

She’s taken what used to be McCree’s seat on the end of the couch, but he doesn’t mind, and snags his mug from in front of her to relocate to the cushion in between the two of theirs. Feels good to have an excuse to sit closer to Hanzo, honestly. He doesn’t know how much longer he can stand to keep a polite distance from Hanzo in the waking world, when all he wants is the same closeness he’s become accustomed to when he’s asleep.

As it turns out, he doesn’t last for long — the drinks and company have their intended effect, and soon after his head comes to rest heavily on the plush cushion of the couch, the subpar acting onscreen fades away to a low drone.

McCree dozes for long enough that his mouth is dry by the time he suddenly rouses, woken by something he can’t name. The television’s gone dark, and without the light of the screen to illuminate the room, he can barely see anything around him. His head still rests on warm fabric, and he seriously contemplates just sleeping there, the breakfast rush be damned, when suddenly the couch shifts beneath his cheek.

Suddenly fully awake, McCree bolts upright as he realizes, to his mortification, that he nodded off on Hanzo’s shoulder. “Hana left a few minutes ago,” Hanzo says, as if he thinks that’s the reason McCree’s so alarmed. As if he failed to notice _a full-grown man_ using him as a pillow.

“Didn’t mean to, uh. Fall asleep on you.”

“The movie wasn’t very good, so you didn’t miss much,” Hanzo replies, voice still carefully bland. “I’m surprised you fell asleep while Hana and I were here.”

“Huh.” Now that Hanzo points it out, so is he. “Guess I’d better relocate before I do it again. Night, Hanzo.”

Hanzo echoes the sentiment as McCree heads for the door, but McCree already knows he’s liable to spend the next few hours chasing the same sleep he just woke from.

 

* * *

 

McCree spends longer than necessary in front of the bathroom mirror, lingering long after he’s given up the pretense of trying to tame his hair and beard into looking presentable. As it turns out, staring at his grimly determined reflection doesn’t help turn it into something more suited to a party.

He never used to mind the parties that went on during Blackwatch, either after a successful long-term mission or for a holiday. Of course, he never used to mind being around that many people at once. He’s come a long way since his arrival, but he’s not quite sure how ready he is to have people at his back no matter where he stands, even if it’s the same people who have saved his sorry hide during several close scrapes out in the field.

But it’s about to be a new year, and if there’s anything that deserves a proper celebration, it’s capping off their year of successful missions, few serious injuries, and no sweeping arrests for being part of an illegal organization.

McCree arrived just a few weeks after last year’s party — though it sounds like there wasn’t much to miss — but he’s been there long enough to feel like he’s a part of their successes since then. He deserves this, too. Reminding himself that it’s still the same people he sees nearly every day, he takes a deep breath and turns away from the mirror, purposefully keeping his pace slow to mask the nervous tension building in his gut.

The walk to the rec room feels shorter than ever; the faint music coming from behind the soundproofed door makes it even harder to steel himself to slip inside.

The lighting hits him first, casting shades of blue over everyone gathered inside and transforming the familiar space. At first glance, it’s hard to recognize anyone between the change in lighting and the bright flashes from the revolving holographic beacon that hangs above the center of the room, displaying the countdown to midnight local time, but nobody could mistake Torbjörn’s beard as belonging to anyone else. McCree drops gratefully into the free seat next to Torbjörn and Ingrid and lets himself be drawn into a good-natured heckling about the performance improvements he could expect if he’d just let the engineer spend some quality time with his prosthesis.

The familiar topic gives him time to take stock of the room before he joins the fray for good, the knot tangling up his insides loosening as he sees exactly who’s present: all his teammates, as expected given the unpredictable nature of their mission schedule, with only a few guests scattered throughout, which comes as a relief. Winston looks just as uncomfortable as McCree feels, although the relief is stark on his face when Lena heads in his direction, towing a tall, unfamiliar redheaded woman along behind her. Two guesses on that, McCree muses, though he’s never met her personally.

McCree thinks he sees another familiar face and cranes his neck in that direction, but all he sees is Reinhardt standing near the sound booth, gesticulating wildly as he chats with Lúcio. McCree can guess he's trying to wheedle a few older songs into the lineup.

Apparently he succeeds, as Lúcio laughs good-naturedly and with a few sweeps of his hands, transitions the music into opening chords that McCree knows he’s heard before but can’t place. It seems to please Reinhardt well enough, and he sweeps off with a booming laugh, heading towards Torbjörn and Ingrid. McCree slips away before he arrives to give them some time to reminisce, leaving the periphery to stand closer to the others gathered throughout the room.

Even 76 is there, a pair of cheap, gaudy glasses displaying the new date situated firmly over his visor. McCree’s suddenly relieved he managed to make it — he couldn’t stand if he was less social than a vigilante desperately trying to cling to the last shreds of mystery, even as those who spent more than five minutes in the company of Jack Morrison pretend to turn a blind eye to his identity.

A flash of bright red out of the corner of his eye catches his attention, standing out against the dim lighting of the rec room, but as he turns to look, lime green catches his eye instead.

“Jesse!”

Genji indelicately drapes himself across McCree, leaning the considerable weight of his metal body against him for support. Although his first instinct is to remove Genji's arm from where it lays across the back of his neck, he waits it out, and soon finds himself relaxing into the familiar grip. The only times Genji ever really got this close back in Blackwatch was on missions, either when they were jammed in the hold of a jet like sardines or when he had to haul McCree out of dodge, but in this context, it's...almost nice. Friendly. The flash of worry from being snuck up on never comes.

“Gotten into the punch, have you?” McCree asks, amused, and steals the glass out of Genji’s hand to take a sip. It’s more potent than he expected while still tasting sickly sweet, and he’s briefly impressed by whoever managed to sneak that amount of alcohol by Angela.

“Jesse, I somehow got dragged into discussing the state of my brother’s love life while he got ready for this party. The very first thing I did when I got here was get into the punch.”

McCree absolutely refuses to show any curiosity — that’s the surest way to never get any useful information out of Genji. “You say that like you weren’t the one dragging it out of him. I know your tricks when you wanna know something.”

Genji reclaims his punch, glaring without any real heat behind it. “You know this is at least partially your fault, right? I _might_ forgive you if you refill my glass.”

With a laugh, McCree disengages himself from Genji’s chrome-plated grip and obliges, grabbing a second one for himself as well. It’s easier to navigate the packed room on the way back when he has a ready-made excuse in hand, even letting himself be drawn into a few brief conversations along the way.

By the time he makes it back, Genji’s in the middle of a lively discussion with Fareeha and Mei, and only makes a mild fuss at the delay before accepting the peace offering. McCree spares a brief moment wondering at what point he should make his exit to avoid a joking attempt by Genji to lay one on him at midnight, when motion at his side catches his attention.

His gaze locks on clever brown eyes instead of blinding white.

Hanzo looks resplendent in rich red with golden accents, the fabric’s color reminiscent of the grinning design over his shoulder that McCree has seen so many times before. Suitably festive, and stunning enough to make all other thoughts flee McCree’s mind entirely.

“Was wondering if you’d made it.”

“I could say the same of you,” Hanzo replies. He has an untouched glass of punch in hand as well, and is pressed close enough that McCree can faintly feel the warmth of him through the fabric.

“Good thing you did — Genji’s been telling tall tales about you.”

“He’s lying,” Hanzo says reflexively, but there’s a telling if faint flush to his cheeks as he glares across McCree at his brother. McCree just laughs and claps a hand to his shoulder, steering him away before _that_ devolves into petty sniping.

They wind up wandering in vague circles around the room, passing from group to group, neither of them content to stand still for too long at a time. McCree doesn’t bother to refill his glass once it’s empty, the punch far too sweet for his tastes, but every time they pass by the table it’s served on there’s someone there and eager to chat. It’s refreshing to see everyone relaxed for once.

A roar from the crowd near the front of the room finally draws McCree’s focus away from his debate with Hanzo and Zarya over the effectiveness of various hand-to-hand styles, and he sees everyone’s eyes fixed upwards, a few people pointing excitedly towards the display. Only a minute left on the countdown.

“Are you looking forward to the new year?” Hanzo murmurs quietly next to him.

Been a long time since he could honestly say so, but— “Yeah, I am. Got a lot of good work ahead of us. You have any resolutions?”

“A few.”

Hanzo’s perfectly neutral tone gives away nothing, but McCree still has to fight to keep an amused smile off his face. Based on Hanzo’s reaction to Genji’s big mouth earlier, he thinks he might have an idea about one or two of those resolutions. “Well, you let me know if I can help with any.”

“I will.” Hanzo pauses and looks over at McCree. “I hope to get one in particular crossed off very early in the year.”

A hopeful grin finally breaks free. “In about fifteen seconds, maybe?”

The noise in the room swells as Reinhardt leads the others in a shouted countdown, while next to McCree, Hanzo says, “That seems to be as good a time as any.”

His words are barely audible over the rest of the room, but McCree can’t stand to wait any longer. He turns to face Hanzo, who seems to have the same idea, reaching up to grip McCree’s shoulders and dragging him down the scant few inches between them. Even if that wasn’t quite what he expected, McCree isn’t going to complain, not when it means Hanzo’s mouth on his, hard and demanding and everything he ever wanted after nearly a year of dancing around the point.

There’s an explosion of cheers around them, but McCree can’t formulate any thoughts beyond their little bubble in the middle of the crowd, standing close as can be. Hanzo’s hands shift upwards to tangle in his hair, making it clear how strongly he approves of McCree’s refusal to acknowledge the rest of the room, and McCree just winds his arms tighter around Hanzo’s waist to keep him there.

“Been driving me crazy,” McCree gasps out when they finally break apart, long after the clock has ticked over to midnight. Hanzo laughs quietly at his words, warm puffs of air against his neck, and McCree realizes he’s so far gone there isn’t any denying it now. Between having Hanzo in his arms and being surrounded by the friends and teammates he’s made so many strides with already, it’s hard to feel anything other than utterly content.

This year’s already off to a far better start than the last.

 

* * *

 

McCree wakes slowly, easing from sleep with more reluctance than he’s ever had in his life. The face in front of his resolves into Hanzo’s familiar features as he slowly blinks the grit from his eyes, dispelling the last traces of a lingering dream.

Hanzo’s face is still lax with sleep, fortunately undisturbed by McCree’s slight movement, just as striking as when he’s awake. As restful as he looks, there’s rapid motion over Hanzo’s exposed skin that draws McCree’s gaze there with a frown.

Blue light illuminates the space between them, dappling the newly-shorn sides of Hanzo’s head in faint shades and shadows as it swirls one last time around the small portion of shoulder and arm that’s visible above the blanket. As McCree watches, the light fades to nothingness, leaving behind only inked skin.

With a start, McCree realizes — remembers — the face in his dreams wasn’t shaded in gray. In fact, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Hanzo wear a suit, let alone one with the cut and accents that he can recall with perfect accuracy.

He isn't quite sure what to think, but it doesn’t matter so much anymore, not with Hanzo right here with him.

“Hell of a thing,” he murmurs, and rises to start the day.

**Author's Note:**

> Last year's New Year's resolution for me was to get back to writing fic, which I hadn't done since 2013 and desperately wanted to get back to. A new fandom was the perfect chance, and with 41k published this year and another ~30k of unpublished WIP projects, I'd say that was a huge success!
> 
> I don't know how much I'll be able to publish in the new year due to school commitments, but I'm repeating my resolution and will just be happy to still be writing, no matter the amount. I've at least got my McHanzo Big Bang fic in the works for publishing in April, so there's one big thing that'll be completed next year!
> 
> Happy New Year, everyone. <3


End file.
